Page 61 of The Botanist's Assistant
Although perhaps she will investigate further the job requirements of a grocery store clerk, its salary and chances for promotion.
31
Not What They Seem
Margaret is at Rachel Sterling’soffice door one minute before three the next day, which is when the biochemist’s office hours begin.
She and Calvin have accomplished a fair amount of work today, running frozen cockscomb and kerria leaves through the TissueLyser to grind them into a powder, extracting material with methanol, then allowing it to dry. Tomorrow, they will continue their work.
Calvin, thankfully, seems to have recovered from his smoking setback and says that instead of quitting cold turkey, he plans now to reduce his smoking by one cigarette every other day until he is down to zero, a task that he estimates will take at least six weeks, as he was up to a pack-a-day habit.
“By then I’ll be a blimp, of course,” he says. “Whenever I don’t smoke, my appetite goes through the roof.”
Margaret advises vegetables and fruit.
“How about French fries?” he asks hopefully.
Margaret tells him that while, technically, French fries are vegetables, the cooking method negates any health benefits.
“Perhaps try steaming potatoes.”
“Ugh,” Calvin says. “I’d rather eat cotton balls.”
Margaret looks at her watch—three p.m. exactly—and knocks on Professor Sterling’s door, then tests the knob. It’s locked. Is Professor Sterling one of those faculty whose office hours are a disguise for naps and early commutes home?
The answer comes a few seconds later, when she hears footsteps against the linoleum floor and sees Sterling hurrying up the dim hallway, her arms full of books and a large leather handbag slung over one shoulder.
“Ms. Finch,” she says with surprise when she recognizes Margaret at her door.
“Professor Sterling,” Margaret acknowledges.
“Sorry I’m late. Let me just get the door open.” Sterling shifts the books she carries and retrieves a key from her purse.
She is wearing a blue wraparound dress with red hoop earrings and red sneakers. Now that she is close, Margaret guesses Professor Sterling is in her early to mid-forties, which the faint crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes seem to attest. She’s certainly attractive. What Margaret admires most about the woman, however, is that she is lugging actual books into her office. Books show concentration. Books show seriousness and a commitment to a subject.
“I just read this wonderful magazine article about a woman chemist in the late nineties,” Sterling is saying. “It was about her hunting polyfluoroalkyl compounds, forever chemicals, to their source. It turns out she published a memoir about her adventures, which I found in the library. Then I discovered another biography about this female chemist in the 1860s. I can’t wait to dive in.”
Sterling’s office is neat and sunlit. She sets the books on a corner of her desk and opens the office’s lone window. “How can I help you, Ms. Finch?”
Margaret can see the intelligence in the woman’s eyes. There is a sharpness, a sense that details do not escape her. Misdirection and lies will not work.
“Margaret, please,” she says, “and I’d like to talk to you about Dr. Deaver.”
Sterling stills as if Medusa had suddenly appeared and turned her to stone.
“Oh,” she says, slowly lowering her handbag to the floor.
Margaret feels bad for what she is about to do but knows she will feel worse if a murderer is allowed to go free. “Am I wrong to think you two were close?”
Sterling sinks into her office chair, and Margaret takes the chair at the edge of the desk, which, like Dr. Deaver’s, is not university issued.Mahogany, Margaret thinks.
Sterling presses her lips together. Silence descends.
“It’s all right, Professor Sterling,” Margaret says after a few moments. “Whatever you say to me will be held in confidence until you’re ready for the truth to be revealed. I’m taking a risk myself by saying this to you, but I suspect Dr. Deaver did not die of a heart defect but instead he may have been poisoned.
Sterling’s eyes grow wide. “Poisoned?”
“Yes.”
